Nightmare in Reality
by Bloody Koalas
Summary: When tragedy strikes the hospital, Cameron finds herself in the midst of a painful war...in more ways than one.
1. Prolouge

**A/N: This fic might sound a little odd. It was originally a History report, and then I played around with the characters and the situations to make it House. Sorry it's so short. I've an awful tenancy to make short chapters. And, thank you _Natalia Potter_ for helping me with the Spanish…I'm not exactly an expert in the language.**

**Note: Code Orange means…well, you'll find out. You don't need to know what it means to understand the fic, just know that's its _bad._**

**Setting: Season 3, but no particular episode.**

**Disclaimer: No. As much as you probably thought I owned House, I don't. I was disappointed, too.**

**Disclaimer #2: My friend, the other Bloody Koala (Marie), co-authored this with me…helped me when I was stuck, encouraged me, listened to me rant throughout the odd hours of the night, all that jazz.**

Cameron lazily slipped out of her car and walked up to the apartment. She was utterly exhausted, and all she wanted to do was go into a deep sleep and never wake up. It had been a hard day, with a tough case that never seemed to end, parents who forbade House's treatments, and as usual…House was House.

Her stomach growled. She ignored it. It was nearly 10 o'clock, and she was far too tired to shovel anything she might have handy down her throat. Except maybe some sleeping pills. But she decided against those, because being a doctor had taught her that she would always be 'operating heavy machinery'. Not to mention the whole thing about getting her 'normal' amount of sleep each night. What was normal? Her sleep varied with the case at hand. But Cameron was lucky, very lucky, if she got 6 nightly hours of sleep during a workweek.

Her mind darted to House, who had been in a particularly bad mood today. She thought of his leg. His limp had been especially heavy and pronounced, and for once in her fellowship she was glad to see him pop a vicodin. So he could be rid of the pain. And with that thought pulsing at the back of her memory, she slipped into bed.

* * *

Cuddy cringed as her latest legality applicant slid out the door. House again. Patient complained of 'being embarrassed in front of my family'. She had retorted him, saying that he'd had the opportunity to tell the truth to Foreman when he'd asked. But nooo, the patients just _always_ had to wait until they were experiencing life-threatening symptoms. Because, of course, their little secrets were never actually _important._ Nope. Never.

The erotically dressed administrator brushed the file into the trash. It was history. Hopefully. The soft buzz in her pocket brought her back to reality. As she read the message, the color dripped of her face as if it were paint. _Code Orange._

* * *

The cotton layers were cool against her cheek, but Cameron still felt warm and restless. After several minutes of staring idly at her ceiling, she slid out of her bedroom and clicked on the TV. Maybe her eyes would droop shut, and she would catch a couple peaceful hours.

"The 10 o'clock news!" the TV screamed. Cameron cringed at the heavy noise and turned the volume down…way down. She switched the channel to something less negative, less real. She got her daily fill of reality drama at the hospital.

Soon, a Spanish soap opera was playing happily. "¿Qué? ¿Dormiste con ella? Cómo te atreviste?" Cameron rolled her eyes at the sappy storyline. It was utterly ridiculous. And she had been trying to get away from the drama.

A blue and red banner flashed across the screen, blocking out the brokenhearted young woman and her husband. _BREAKING NEWS: Princeton Plainsboro Hospital in Princeton, New Jersey is under the attack of bombers. Seven deaths have been recorded. Many more are said to occur. Several anonymous sources claim more bombs are on the way. Any and all policeman in the area are being asked to protect the safety of those still unharmed. This has been News Channel 10, bringing you the latest in New Jersey News._

Cameron's eyes were saucers, and her perfectionist heart dropped like a stone. Yet she hesitated only a second before grabbing her coat and her keys. She was out the door in 8 seconds flat, a new record.


	2. Hospitality

**A/N: This fic might sound a little odd. It was originally a History report, and then I played around with the characters and the situations to make it House.**

**Disclaimer: No. As much as you probably thought I owned House, I don't. I was disappointed, too.**

**Disclaimer #2: My friend, the other Bloody Koala (Marie), co-authored this with me…helped me when I was stuck, encouraged me, listened to me rant throughout the odd hours of the night, all that jazz.**

Cuddy briskly walked through the hallways of PPTH. The bomb had exploded in the Pediatric Ward. Deaths: 3 children and 4 nurses. Every staff member has been ordered to evacuate the remaining patients and their families to Princeton General, whose busses and ambulances were waiting outside.

Seven people had died, four of them nurses, whose medical skills were desperately needed. Whose calming prowess over children was _required_. Cuddy was scared out of her mind.

Suddenly her pager went off. In her paranoia, she had almost thrown it out the window. What if it was another bomb? But, obviously, it wasn't. Cuddy looked down. It was Cameron. _I'll be there soon,_ it read. Cuddy sighed, holding in her tears. She was only one woman, after all. Those tears would have to wait till this thing was…until the patients were safe.

* * *

Cameron ran though the doors, searching worriedly for anyone. Anyone at all. She found Wilson. 

"Dr. Wilson! Dr. Wilson! WILSON!" she called, her voice wavering just above 'frightened child'.

"Dr. Cameron! Are you alright?"

"How can I help—?"

"Get every patient evacuated. Princeton Gen's ambu—" Wilson tried to answer, but Cameron had heard enough to know what was necessary.

She raced up the stairs to the private rooms, passing House's _vacant _office on her way. She ran in, searching through his desk, and finally picking up a bottle of vicodin. Even though she was sure he carried one with him, it was a good idea to have extra. And she might need to administer pain meds to patients, as well.

Room 216, she read, before pushing through the door of the first patient room on the floor. Inside there was a blonde teen lying in the bed. Cameron noted the bandage on her throat. Her parents were pacing the floor. "What's going on? What was that noise?" They were very frightened, but the parents looked easy enough to convince.

"I'm Dr. Cameron. There's been a—we need to evacuate the hospital. Come with me." She jumped over to the bed, where the girl's medical chart lay. It said that she had had trouble breathing. If that was the case, why hadn't she just gone to the clinic? Why was she here, in a private room? "What's wrong with your daughter?"

"She had a respiratory arrest. _What _is going on?"

"No, before the arrest: why is she in here? Someone is bombing the hospital. You need to leave, now."

The man responded with an angry look that could have shot through the door and then some. His wife's eyes were filled with a mixture of shock, horror and protectiveness. "We're not leaving without Addie! She had an asthma attack. Very severe."

Cameron bit back a truly Housian response and grabbed an inhaler, an intubation kit, two packages of gauze, several pre-filled syringes, and several bottles of meds from various drawers and cabinets in the room. She put one of the gauze-containers and a few bottles of pills into her lab-coat pocket, and threw the rest onto the back of a wheelchair. "You need to get out of here! Bring these to the _any_ doctor once you get outside. Come on, get in! I've got to run. Exit is directly on your left."

The parents' anxious shouts didn't stop Super Doctor. Cameron jumped out of the room, ready for action.

Cameron ran into the lobby, where assorted patients and their families were running, limping and wheeling their way out of the building. Limping! Oh, god, where was House?

She had just as soon escorted a LP patient to an ambulance when she earnestly ran for the elevators. To see House. See that he was OK. As likely as it was that several different pessimistic scenarios could hold some truth to them, Cameron didn't let her negative thoughts weigh her down.

The buttons of the panel on the wall beside the elevator shown with a soft glow, and were toasty warm to the touch. Cameron wasted no time pressing them, just the right numbers to take her just where she wanted to be. But the doors never opened. She waited, impatiently tapping her foot. Ready to sprint off and find another elevator—there was one in the Oncology hall, right? And one in the clinic, and—

An explosion, followed by a series of tear-jerking cracks, interrupted her thoughts. There was no time to think, just to look. The ceiling of the hallway was caving down around her, and the walls bent with pressure. The only way out of the war zone was straight ahead, through the elevator. The door slowly cracked open, probably by means of broken wiring, but Cameron took her chances and rushed in.

Nothing in all of her years of medical school could have prepared her for the scene she saw inside.


	3. Search and Rescue

**A/N: Hello again. In case you were wondering, we haven't gotten to the part I used in my history report yet. Have fun clawing out your eyeballs when I don't update instantly. But this fic is the easiest for me to write, so it'll be done the fastest.**

**WARNING: Hameron fluff! You've been warned!**

**Disclaimer: When I look in the mirror, I don't see David Shore. I see me.**

House crouched on the floor of the elevator, a halo of blood encircling his head. There were several pieces of metal lying scattered on the tackily carpeted floor, and Cameron guessed that one such piece had hit him, causing the large but seemingly harmless laceration on his head.

"House!" she called, afraid to talk to him, afraid to see him like this. This wasn't House. Not him. Not helpless and hurt.

His reply was very soft, and Cameron's tears began to flow. "Are you…alright?" His voice crackled out the words.

"Yes! But I'm worried about you!" she managed to say, through her choking sobs.

"Don't be. I'm completely fin—" House's hand shot down to his thigh. His brow furrowed at the intensity of the pain, and he began to sweat. Cameron nervously fumbled through the pocket of her lab coat before finding the bottle of Vicodin. She twisted open the cap and poured four of the smooth, oblong pills into her hand, quickly thrusting them at his face. House cupped his hand as the pills were poured in, and dry-swallowed them immediately. After about 20 seconds his shoulders began to relax, his muscles started to relinquish their tight position. Vicodin was a miracle-worker. And it was times like these, however seldom, that led Cameron to think that maybe it was lucky House overdosed on Vicodin. It did seem to work, after all.

"House," She whispered. Nervous conversations were not her forte. Nervous feelings, yes, but she didn't know what to say to House. "I thought you were gone."

"Hmm," he moaned, then quickly added the familiar sarcastic nature to his voice. "I hope you haven't been visiting Chase in the closet again while I was 'gone'."

Cameron drew back; half happy he was feeling well enough to talk in his usual manner, half upset she hadn't time to tend to his injury while he was still quiet.

He watched her remove the gauze from her pocket and start to unwrap it before holding up his hand. "Hey, hold up, Nurse Nightingale. I'll do it myself."

She slowly gave away her only chance at a clean conscience, and then unhappily turned to the door, leaving him free to be semi-dignified and less pathetic, at least in his own mind. The soft metal doors were open, but just a crack. Cameron picked up a piece of broken-elevator-roof and tried to see if she could pry open the doors more, just enough to crawl out and get some help.

Her hand started to bleed. That metal had been sharper than she'd anticipated. _Ouch,_ she murmured, and wiped the blood on her lab coat. Hey, it was covered in dust anyway. And no one had to know it was her blood.

She tried again, this time prying the door about a foot open. She jammed the tile in between the doors, and cupped her hands. "Hello? Can anyone here me?" No reply. Cameron grabbed another tile and set it between the doors. Now there was a space big enough for her to crawl through. But not big enough for House. She would have to go out alone. But she couldn't lave him alone.

Cameron convinced herself to stay close to the door once she go on the other side, so she could see House. Make sure he was safe. She gingerly placed one leg outside, then pulled her torso through. Her arms came next. She kept one foot inside the elevator, so she could keep her balance.

An explosion reverberated throughout the hospital. And this bomb had set of close. Much to close. The elevator door squeezed shut, and Cameron didn't even have time to lift her foot out. Her leg snapped like a twig. She could feel blood pouring out of her wound. She screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that echoed long after she'd finished it. Tears ran down her face, 50 fear for House's safety, 50 sheer pain. Cameron looked up, onto the hallway floor. The ceramic tiles ripples like ocean waves before breaking as the hit the walls. The old walls were already beaten up from the second bomb. They simply couldn't handle another. So they fell, fell onto Cameron, crushing her and smothering her.

She choked. Nonsense came spluttering out of her mouth, like she'd spit up a dictionary. Tears mixed with cement dust to form a sort-of plaster on her cheeks.

She couldn't move her head. Couldn't feel her legs anymore. Couldn't see the elevator. House! She couldn't feel him, couldn't hear him, couldn't see him. Heck, she couldn't even see what was in front of her. Textbook concussion. Oh god! She couldn't go to sleep if she had a concussion. No. She had to stay awake.

She had probably killed House. All thanks to her stupid plan, now she had no way of knowing he was safe. All that plus his already injured head. And his leg, too. She had probably just sealed both their fates. It was all her fault.

Cameron blinked. The dust hasn't cleared yet. It was still settling. Her leg freaked her out now. If she couldn't feel it, something bad must've happened, right?

Voices. Voices were shouting. No, they weren't. She was dreaming. Another concussion-symptom. But there they were again: those voices. Could they save her? _No, could they save HOUSE?_

"Help!" Cameron coughed. It was hard to talk in this air. Thick with grime and dust, it was. "Hou…over here!" she shouted out. To the voices.

The voices went away. Perhaps she'd imagined them. No wait: someone was looking at her. Or rather, _something_ was looking at her. A light shone straight into her eyes. She shied away. A familiar voice called out to someone behind him or her, "I've found Dr. Cameron!"

She knew that voice. That cute little drawl…that was Chase. Chase had found her! And now…now she was safe. House was safe. She hoped. Cameron held his gaze a little while longer. She tried to motion behind her, tried to let them know House was there, back in the elevator. But upon moving her arm she winced in pain. And all she could do was set her head down onto the rubble and try and block out the pain, the noise, the light. Get rid of it all. It was a bad idea. Without even a warning, everything went black. And House himself wouldn't have been able to awaken her. Because there was more wrong with Cameron than a broken leg. Way more.


	4. Traumatized

**A/N: Hello there. The muse made me do it. So if this story takes a turn for the unexpected, expect it. Even if I generally write in a stereotypical, hideously clichéd format, always expect the unexpected. (See? I did it again!)**

**Note: Yay! We're getting into the history-report thing now! But I didn't actually realize how much of it I had to cut out…seeing as Cameron needs to be clueless…**

**By: Hadley, of the Bloody Koalas.**

**Disclaimer: If I owned House, I would pay you guys for your stories so I could end the Writer's Strike with YOU! Wouldn't that be cool? We'd finally get new episodes! I am in total suspense for Tuesday's episode, by the way.**

_I opened my eyes. It was dark __outside__. I wasn't in the hallway of PPTH. So where was I? Wait: I was walking. Involuntarily. I was dressed in…a dress, not my bloodstained lab coat. A dress from the 1700's. My corset pinched me. Wait—did they even wear corsets back then? I don't exactly kept tabs on old-fashioned women's wear. And seeing how me suddenly turning into a walking history book cannot possibly be justified…this, obviously, must be a hallucination. Or a dream…or something like that. _

_My legs were moving. I was marching. And I tried to stop, but my legs wouldn't let me. I have a very bad feeling about this place. After my struggle with my own legs ended pessimistically, I looked around. I wasn't alone anymore. I was with…soldiers? They were dressed in red, so that must mean they were British soldiers, were being the operative word. My skirt kept sticking to my legs. It was really, really muddy, and getting harder to move by the second. Yep. Definitely a hallucination._

_I heard a shout. A female shout. I know that voice! It sounded like Cuddy! I thought I was awake from the hallucination. Nope. But Cuddy was there. She was dressed funny, in this brown dress with a VERY low neckline. Way, way lower than publicly legal, and sooo very revealing. _

_She was holding arrows, complete with a bow. And she was stringing up; getting ready to shoot. I do not want to get on the wrong side of her. And then, before I realized it, I was back in the clinic, still dressed in that ancient dress, but with my lab coat over it. Patients, none of whom noticed my inappropriate attire, surrounded me. They were sneezing loudly, and all evidently had colds. Just like most of the clinic patients did. Then, all at the same time, they collapsed onto the ground. Dead. Arrows suddenly appeared, protruding at awkward angles from their chests. _

_The picture vanished quickly. I was back outside, without my lab coat, just that ratty old dress. Back to marching with the Brits. Off to war, I suppose._

* * *

"I've found her! I found Cameron!" Chase's shout echoed into the hallway. 

Foreman rushed to the Aussie's side as fast as he could while still avoiding the debris on the floor. "How is she?" he asked nervously. Which was a new thing for him. Foreman was never nervous, or scared. Even during the brain-cancer scam he had merely been protective over House.

This was something different. This was _Cameron_, the woman whose permanent record probably smelt of lemons from never being used. Sweet and perfect, that was Cameron. So, even though in comparison to Chase he felt nothing, he cared enough. Cared enough to want her to be fine.

"She responded to the light test, but just barely. She's unconscious now. And by the look of it, a concussion isn't so far-fetched." Chase muttered, franticly searching her body for any cuts, bruises, anything thing of medical relevance. Then he found it. Blood.

"Wait! Don't move her yet! " Chase yelled to Foreman. "I think she's got a broken leg. It's lodged between the elevator doors."

Foreman solemnly peered down at Cameron. She was like his little sister. Imagine someone had just told you that your sister had broken her leg AND she was in pain. Plus she wasn't actually responsive. What would you do?

He anxiously cleared a path in the debris for Chase to lay Cameron down on, then pried open the doors. Chase got Cameron free, and set her onto clean ground, expertly checking her eerily gory break…until he was interrupted.

Foreman's head darted out from inside the elevator. "Chase! House is in here! The amount of blood indicates cranial trauma," he shouted. Foreman hadn't even known House was still in the building; usually he went home at the first chance he got.

House looked up. He didn't remember what had happened moments ago, and was relatively surprised to find himself on the floor of a broken elevator, being earnestly stared at by his oldest duckling. "You going to quit checking me out anytime soon? I don't really have a problem with it…but your girlfriend might." House sarcastically remarked. Foreman rolled his eyes.

"So I'm guessing you're ok?"

"Except for the fact that I'm sitting on my ass in an elevator with blood dripping of my face, yes, I'm just peachy!" House leaned against the wall to stabilize himself. "Yo, homie. I didn't hire you to gawk at my beauty."

Foreman stiffened, turning around immediately. At least _Cameron_ would appreciate his help. "Hey! Foreman," Chase called out weakly. He was exhausted. Hey, you try looking at the woman you love while she's unconscious and bleeding. "She's losing too much blood!"


	5. The Dancing IV

**A/N: Bite me, House. Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Life takes Visa, so does my muse.**

**Um…I was having trouble with Cameron's hallucinations, so they will no longer be in italics, but they will be separated in breaks. And they'll be narrated from me, not her.**

**Disclaimer: I didn't own House in the last fic; I don't own it now.**

Thumping noises. Dark colors. Strange words, all floating past Cameron's head.

No sense.

Nonsense.

And an arrow. Whizzing by. It cried out, a battle cry. The voice was human…and damn it all if it wasn't Vogler.

He shouted at some men. "Mind your arms! Forward, march!" The men slowly surrounded Cameron. She slunk back, her eyes black with fear. _He can't be here! This isn't right. He's gone. He can't be here!_

The men turned into nurses, nurses that were unknown to Cameron. Innocent nurses, all gathered. They were frightened. But obedient.

The nurses fell down around her like paper dolls. They were dead, all of them dead. _Because of Vogler_, she thought. _Vogler and his men. It was all his fault._ Everything was his fault. Her unconscious dream was very quickly turning into a panic-worthy nightmare, a horror film that she couldn't get out of. She was trapped.

* * *

Foreman shouted to the nurses running though the halls. "Hey! Over here! Get me a gurney!"

Chase prayed a silent prayer for his colleague. The one he loved, the girl whose refusal of his love had crushed him.

From the blank look on her sweet, porcelain face, she'd need all the help she could get.

* * *

Ping! Bzzzt!

Bullets ricocheted through the air. Cameron watched in horror as people fell of horses (horses that had appeared for the battle), wounded and bleeding. She knew most of them. The intern who always yells at the kids in Pediatrics. The cafeteria lady. House's last patient, who was looking well. Considering she should technically be dead. All of it, all of the mess, shouldn't be happening. It wasn't fair. No one should die for any reason.

Cameron was stuck—which is not being poetic at all. She was really _stuck_, like she was glued down. Couldn't move at all. Couldn't help anyone.

And then she saw him. House fell of his horse.

She felt like her mind had snapped. What should've been emotional pain physically hurt—black waves reverberated through her eyes and she stumbled on her feet. But she was free. And she ran. Fast.

* * *

"I need 2 liters of O positive, stat!" Foreman shouted at the ambulance attendees standing in the parking lot.

"Class III, hurry up!" yelled Chase. He placed Cameron's arm onto her chest. Her cold and pale appearance was not as becoming as the young brunette's figure should've been, but Chase thought she looked beautiful. Even drifting in and out of unconsciousness.

* * *

Cameron's ears peaked at the sound of Chase's voice. She tried to motion back towards the elevator, but her arms wouldn't move. They were stuck. Like her legs had been before. Her eyes fluttered open once, but then she closed them. She wasn't in the hospital. She was outside. Foreman was screaming at someone. Chase was clutching her arm.

Why was Foreman yelling? Where did House go? Why is Chase here?

Ouch! A needle pricked her skin. Wait, what? A needle? It stung like a Chile pepper. Dancing on her arm. Having a party.

Ow. It hurt. Really hurt.


	6. Teardrops

**A/N: Hello. I appreciate your **_**kind**_** reviews, reviews that aren't angry with me for never updating. Thanks.**

**Disclaimer: I'm in school, for heaven's sake! How could I possibly own House?**

**Note: I am sorry if you're British and I (House) offended you in this chapter. Just a warning.**

Gunshots echoed and bullets ricocheted through the air, but Cameron was hit by none as she rushed to his side. Perhaps the only reason she wasn't killed instantly was that it was _her_ hallucination. Somewhere in her messed-up brain, she was controlling every scene she saw. But Cameron knew that her mind didn't make it all up—it received stimulants for _her_ real life. Uh-oh.

House was devoid of any canes, orange bottles consequently containing vicodin, and every possible shred of dignity. He was also covered in seeping, crimson blood. Stained his unwashed shirt, his crinkled jeans, his favorite Nikes. Ruined.

Horrible.

Cameron knelt down into the wet earth, damp with sweat, tears and blood. She stared into his eyes, the lie-detecting orbs of piercing blue that seemed to penetrate her deepest emotions at a single glance. Oh, how she'd missed those eyes.

House raised his head high for a moment, then retracted it and shoved his hand down to his thigh, where a large ringlet of blood was flowing freely. _His bullet-wound, _Cameron thought tentatively. _The infarction. _It was too ironic that House even fit into this crazy, messed up dream, much less _well_. "Hey." House croaked. "When we win, tell those Brits that…" he paused. "Their comedy is awful."

Cameron smiled; she couldn't help it. House was sarcastic, even in his last moments. Though she shouldn't have expected less of him! Even so, her eyes couldn't handle holding any more tears. A lone drop fell, hitting House on the cheek.

"Hey, suck it up. I thought I trained you better than that." Retorted House, yet nonetheless, the ghost of a smile crept across his face.

* * *

_In the Present_

Foreman stared angrily at the ambulance attendees, who were (needless to say) not quite trained paramedics. More likely, nurses who'd been recruited because of the dire need for extra help. _What the hell are they doing?_ He thought. Certainly not servicing House. Foreman sighed heavily, swinging open the drawers lining the inside of the ambulance. He'd find some way to help House. Effectively help, that is.

* * *

Cameron's hands locked into House's. She wasn't sure who's doing it was; she didn't want to find out, either. As she swept her eyes over his face unhappily, she noticed _it._ There was actually…fear in House's eyes. He was gasping for breath. Had lost far too much blood, and now there wasn't enough to go around his body. No! It was happening too fast! No matter. With that simple emotion, House had instilled horror into the eyes of his fellow. Now, Cameron was scared too.

He squeezed her hand tightly before limply letting go himself.

His eyes became devoid of emotion, of feeling.

Of life.

House was dead. And now Cameron was truly alone.

She was jostled out of her horrified tranquility with a soft squeeze to her shoulder. Didn't bother to look; she could hear his accent well enough to determine the speaker. It was Chase.

Soon, after a strong refusal to move, another pair of arms wrapped around Cameron and pulled her up. She turned tentatively. Who was he?

It was Wilson. Wearing a general's cap. General James Wilson. And, by the looks of it, Chase the soldier.

Wilson spoke. "Come. We must retreat." A clearly British tinge was accenting his voice.

Chase lowered his head. "Cameron—follow us. Alright?" And so she did. It was all she could think to do at the moment.

* * *

_In the Present_

Chase looked solemnly upon the sweet face of his co-worker, whose current life-battle was not one she should've even been placed in. He rubbed her shoulder gently; she stirred ever so slightly. Still weak from the blood loss. Chase allowed his hair to sweep over his face, so the tears to be shed wouldn't be seen.


	7. Author's Note

Hey guys (ahem; Chloe!),

I'm going to revamp the story a bit. Which doesn't actually mean much now, because I haven't posted anything new, but I'm going to revise previous chapters a little. Just a warning, if you want to understand everything, you might want to go back and skim. Thanks,

-Hadley of BK


	8. Diagnosis: Unknown

_Okay, guys, I think I've got the gist of this! First off, it WILL be confusing, just bear with me. I ended up just keeping everything as it was, so don't worry about it. Take each chapter as it comes, think them over. It'll hopefully make sense in the long run; one piece of the puzzle after another is going to form this crazy messed-up fic I pride myself in writing. _

**A/N: This is for Chloe! And all the rest of my faithful alert-ees. Love you all! **

**WARNING: I'm sorry, all you MD's and RN's and other medical personnel out there, but I couldn't find a medicine that I liked enough, so I just said 'paralytic'. I know, its probably inaccurate, but ignore it for me?**

**Disclaimer: Last night, I won House. Granted, I was playing Monopoly, so I suppose the principles of the market don't exactly apply here.**

Cameron opened her eyes, dazed. Everything was blurry—a cacophony of colors mixed together above her head, and sounds especially were misleading. It sounded like an orchestra, which led her to thinking, where the hell am I? Maybe she really was in a band room of some kind.

Upon further awake-ness due to several minutes staring blankly above her head, however, Cameron discovered that she was not, in fact, in an orchestra hall. She was actually lying completely motionless on a small metal gurney, evidently in a hospital of some sort. The noise she had heard was the unsteady beeping of machines, the loudest and most familiar being a heart-rate monitor. Her years of medical training proved useless in determining what any of the other devices were called, and even what their uses were was knowledge unbeknownst to her.

Suddenly, she became aware of a bobbing figure looming over her, and noted with pleasure that she could recognize who it was—a doctor, a familiar doctor, a doctor who went by the name of Robert Chase. "Chase!" she would've said, but upon testing her voice, she found that what she _actually_ said came out more like 'Chxzz…' Needless to say, Cameron was not pleased to discover her vocal disadvantages. However, to the joy of the young immunologist, Chase's ears perked at the slight noise coming from his colleague's cot, and he instantly directed his full attention to the still form in front of him.

"Allison?" Cameron felt a wave of warmth roll through her body, but was too curious to note it. She tried giving him an indication that she had heard him, but she couldn't move. Really couldn't _move._ "Allison. Can you hear me? Blink twice for yes, once for—" He didn't have to finish saying it; Cameron had already thrust out two hurried blinks. "Okay, good." His brogue was reassuring in its familiarity. "You've been in an accident. I'm not really sure what exactly happened, but—" Again, Chase was cut off, but this time it was obviously do to some third person behind him, tapping on the glass, though for the life of her Cameron couldn't tell who it was. He continued, albeit somewhat nervously, "There's been an accident. We're at Princeton Plainsboro, all right? You're safe now. You've hurt your leg, we know that Allison, and you can't move right now; we gave you a paralytic. It's going to reduce the pain, Allie."

_Allie?_ He'd called her…Allie. As in, the I'm-your-boyfriend name. Were they? Were they really in a relationship? If they were, then why was she having such trouble remembering? Speaking of which, _what the hell? _Why—no, HOW, could she be in PPTH? It had been bombed! Cuddy would never let patients into a danger zone—and she's rather _die _than endanger innocent lives. This room certainly wasn't dangerous. It was clean, ferociously so, and obviously very well kept.

"Ahd…" Cameron whimpered suddenly, vainly trying for 'head' but falling oh-so far away from her verbal goal. She had a terrible headache.

Chase looked at her in concern. "I'll have a nurse check you out, okay? No one's done a real examination on you yet. Wait here." Ha! As if she could go anywhere. Cameron lay as still as she could in the tiny cot, feeling as small as New Jersey was to Earth, feeling cold and afraid, feeling alone and scared.

Chase left the room.


	9. Desolate

**A/N: Incredibly long chapter, I know. Bear with me.**

**_Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of House M.D., I merely borrow the characters and return them after use, reasonably unharmed._**

* * *

_I'm cold. I'm very cold, but I don't have anything that could possibly constitute a blanket, unless by some miracle old beer bottles have suddenly taken on the toasty warm qualities of wool, or any other such fabric. Until then, I'm stuck here, lying in the dark in some strange place, unable to even grant myself the comfort of bringing my knees to my chest._

_It hurts too much to move anymore._


End file.
